


Oil Slicks

by ForevermoreNevermore



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Home, M/M, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-18
Updated: 2013-02-18
Packaged: 2017-11-29 18:45:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/690234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForevermoreNevermore/pseuds/ForevermoreNevermore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean sometimes thinks he can see Castiel's wings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oil Slicks

Sometimes Dean thinks he can see them. Arching out the of the back of that damned trench coats like buoyant oil slicks in the cool night air. Whistling like they could even think they were happy when their owner quite obviously was not. One of them might even be broken, bending just so where it really shouldn't. 

The wind tunnels through individual feathers and they bristle with indignation at a particularly barbed comment. When Castiel smiles, they do too, arching up like a stained glass portrait. They're the emotions that his face sometimes can't manage to make. They're the crutch that fills in the pieces that Dean could never ram together. 

Cas would step closer and they'd stare each other down. Though the words were sharp and the eyes were hard, Dean could sense something curving around behind him, arching them close into a pod. Language said one thing, but the body language- Stay and listen to me. 

I just want to help.

During a particularly acidic dog fight, he can feel something creep along the side of his neck, whispering over a thundering pulse and pressing something akin to a kiss right under his jawline. 

Let me love you. 

Dean world shifts along an axis that had been building and building and was ready for its new orbit path. 

He thinks he might be dying, actually. That was the only explanation for why he could sometimes see those hormonal feather dusters. One step closer to the angels or some shit like that. 

He mentions his thoughts in passing to the angel. Sam was in the library, digging and nosing and being a genius. There's a small, almost break room that they managed upon. Dean is stretched out on a worn in leather couch while Castiel examined the framed pictures on the wall.   
"If this is what it feels like to die, then I guess it can't all be bad." Cas does that puppy-in-a-cardboard-box look and leans forward a bit.

"Why do you think you are dying? You don't seem to have the usual symptoms of death." Dean spies the smallish smile and kicks his over the side of the couch, collapsing into the corner and throwing one arm over the back. Cas follows the movement, before sitting in the couch opposite of Dean. There isn't much space between the furniture. 

That's when Dean has the thought that maybe he's just crazy. "I think I can see your, uh," he puts a hand behind his back and flaps it. "Wings. Sometimes!" He's quick to add when a flicker of horror dashes across Castiel's face, like he'd just told him that his fly was down.

There's a whisper of breath near the lamp, the mellow light blinking. When Dean turns to look at it he freezes. 

It's not just a feeling anymore. It's ice and fire and satin and it's running up his arm like a hooker in Vegas. Dean feels something akin to nausea, then he thinks he might faint, and he really hopes they don't happen in that order. There's calm in there, somewhere, buried in the tempest of gastric juices and acrobatics that's going on in his gut. 

There's a careful awe about the way Castiel is looking at Dean, his shoulders are back and his face is dropping like a curtain around the most skilled of painter's artwork; soft, happy, and just the right element of something the world would never be able to put a finger on. 

"I didn't let you see them, Dean." he says, carefully as though to quickly put to bed some unspoken fear. Well, it's nice to know that he wasn't going to have his eyes boiled out of his head. Phew. 

Dean looks at him out of the corner of his eyes, worried that there wasn't anything to see touching his arm.

"Dude, what the hell?" There's another flicker by the light and it feels like a giant cat pounced onto the couch, right by his legs. 

Castiel looks stern, staring down at the wing on the couch like it had personally affronted him. Dean straightens, giving room on both sides of him and putting his elbows on his knees. A coffee table stretches like an ocean between them. 

"They sometimes have a mind of their own. You don't really see them, not the real thing." The feather's bristle out across the nape of his neck and a brutal shiver bucks through Dean's spine. Cas is pensive. "They're just a shadow of what they were, like..." And Dean's not quite sure but he might feel that cat-like wing wriggling at the bottom of his shirt, digging for comfort.

Body language.

"Cas..." Blue eyes are lost in the wood grain of the floor and Dean is further wrapped into an unconsciously made cocoon. "Look at me." And when he finally does, Dean takes a deep breath and gently places a hand onto the tan couch, palm up and baiting. "After all the shit that's gone down, after everything wrong that's happened so far, you still keep coming back here. We end up back here." Ice melts into lava in his palm and Dean's breath stutters. The Angel is still staring at him with that understated awe that cuts just so deep. "And bad stuff's just going to keep on happening. We attract trouble like a lint roller."

"I fail to see the-"

"You're not a shadow, Cas." The room stills, the air turning heavy though  transferred to Jell-o. "You've made mistakes. I've made mistakes. You're going to leave again, no matter how much I don't fucking want you to." Cas is shifting closer, eyes wide and and that pleading blue. Dean doesn't know how this conversation managed to get on route with Apple maps and he doesn't know what the hell is just around the river bend but he's heading there like a tank and there's no turning back now. "Just keep coming back, okay? I could help you, we, me and Sam, we could help you, but if you really have to go... there's a home to come back to now. You have a home and don't expect me to dust your knick-nacks for you. You've got feather dusters." They bristle at the accusation, but he likes that small smile he can wring out of Cas. "A shadow can't do what you do to me." 

Cas's coat shifting breaks the quiet like an explosion and he moves across the gap, sitting down beside Dean. The couch dips and their hips meet. A wing leaves his neck, but the one in his hand is still nudging at his fingers, in it's new position holding it in a way Dean doesn't think it's ever been held before. Folded into an embrace.

They stare for a long while, Cas is judging, using their new proximity to stare at every emotion that Dean can feel bubbling just under his surface.  

"I can't abide dust." And the wing in Dean's hand leaves, arching around unseen behind his back and fluttering where it rubs against his skin.

At this close proximity, Dean can almost make out a solid shape fizzling in the air, and it's bent, crooked, like something fell on it.


End file.
